Erinyes
by The Blackjack
Summary: For the Empire, the terrorist destruction of the Death Star was a blow to its prestige and pride: but for one particular young man, it meant being torn from something far more precious and personal. His dream of setting the galaxy to rights will take him to the Outer Rim, where law is little more than a fiction, and the boundary between justice and vengeance is anything but clear.
1. Innocence

Ria stepped into the room with her arms outstretched. She gave a quick spin so everyone could see her uniform. "Well? How does it look?"

The clothing was well fitted and just recently pressed. Her black boots still shone with an unscuffed polish, and a newly-minted rank badge gleamed on her chest. Her father couldn't look any more proud. "The very model of a modern officer," he said with a nod.

Another man in the room, this one much younger, gave a laugh. "It looks like you bought it from a costume store."

"Shut up, Barnes," Ria said, making a face at him.

Her mother gave a great sniff. "L-look at that. My little daughter, all grown up, and—and about to head off to war!" she managed with a repressed sob.

Ria offered her an apologetic smile. "Mama, it's not like I'm going off to fight with a blaster. I'm not really a soldier at all. More like a glorified maintenance worker."

Cyn took a sip of his drink. Ever since they were kids, Ria took a quiet pride in selling herself short. The Empire hired her to do complicated calibrations on internal dampeners—it was about as far from a maintenance worker as he could imagine. "Can you tell us where you're shipping off yet, sis?"

"Sorry," Ria said, looking away from her mother and tossing him a quick wink, "Still top secret. Let's just say it's a huge battlestation—and I mean _huge._ You'll definitely see it on the news soon."

"How big are we talking?" asked Barnes, "You can at least tell us the neighborhood. XQ Platform on a trade route? Or something actually experimental and interesting?"

"You're asking that? Really? Were you even listening to me when I said it was top secret?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

Ria gave him another dry look. "Shut up, Barnes."

Cyn gave half of a laugh and finished off his drink. He stood up from his chair and walked towards the hallway. The family was still chatting away. Grandpa Wes was complaining how aggressive uniforms looked nowadays (back in _his_ day, during the height of the Republic…), Grandpa Wallace was asking mechanical questions clearly no one in the room cared about but him, Aunt Lilliam kept trying to change the subject to her dogs—no great surprises here. Ria walked towards Barnes, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. Cyn opened the door towards the hall, only to hear Lilliam call out from behind him. "Cynnen, where are you headed off to?"

"The kitchen," Cyn called back, slipping through the door, "I'll be back in a moment."

He exited the room. Rather than turning left towards the kitchen, he walked to his right, out onto an expansive porch nestled high within the foothills. It was a cool, clear evening. The sun had just slipped behind the vast green spires of the Avaithen Rift, but the sky still was still painted a dimming orange. A cold breeze rolled in from the east, and he could hear the sound of leaves and branches rustling around him. When he was younger, nothing was worse than being dragged out into these hinterlands every year, generally for days or weeks on end. Now, though, it was the week he counted down to on the calendar the same way he used to anticipate his birthday. It was one of the few times when he was out of a cockpit and surrounded by family and friends. Home.

Six days had already passed. His shuttle took off tomorrow at noon, precisely.

Back inside, he heard a ripple of laughter. Ria's commission had been the talk of the week, and the novelty of it only seemed to grow as the days went by. He held back a sigh that wallowed like oil in his chest. Off the balcony two squirrels fought, chasing one another up and down a tree. Somewhere, a loon gave a lonely call. He heard the door open behind him. He turned, and there was Ria. She smiled. "Looks like you didn't want another drink after all."

"I needed some fresh air," replied Cyn, leaning against the railing, "And a little peace and quiet. I can't take Barnes in more than small doses."

"That's a mean thing to say," said Ria, walking towards him. "Entirely true, but still a little mean."

Cyn gave another one of those not-quite-full laughs. Ria held the railing and closed her eyes. She took in a long, indulgent breath. "You never realize just how fresh the air is out here until you're out in space for a tour. But I'm sure you know all about that."

Too much."You're right," Cyn said with a nod. "I'm thinking about taking some time off later this year and go camping. Maybe up north, near the Crevasses."

"Camping up near the Crevasses? You said that last year, too."

Cyn blinked. "No. It couldn't be that long ago," he said, his voice trailing off. "Did I really? Has it already been a year?"

"It sure has," said Ria, mildly amused.

They were silent for a moment, the only sound being the wind whispering through the leaves. Ria gave him a probing look. "So, you spending another year on the freighter routes?"

"I guess so," said Cyn, "It's better than being unemployed."

"A lot of things are better than being unemployed. Didn't you say that you only wanted the job so you could prove you could fly? I'd say you've accomplished that. There's a lot of options for a guy your age beyond basic shipping routes."

Cyn gave a noncommittal nod, watching the squirrels fight. "I'm not going to be there forever."

Ria glanced in his direction, trying to look him in the eye, "Have you given any more thought about the academy?"

He doggedly evaded the glance. "Not for years."

"Really? You seemed so excited about the idea back—"

"Back when I was what, nineteen? It was a kid's dream. Silly."

"I don't think it's so silly. You're a pretty good pilot. You could go places even if you just enlisted."

"I can go places with the freighters, too," Cyn put in quickly, "Stay on long enough until I'm in charge of two or three barges, and then I can transfer up to something else. I could run my own shipping firm, setting my own schedule. Maybe in the Core, or Hutt Space."

Ria looked out over the valley. "That's not a bad plan."

It was growing darker now: the sky grew gray as shadows around them grew long. Ria spoke again, with some authority in her voice. "Whatever it is, I'm sure you'll do great things."

He looked over to her, but Ria kept gazing out over the valley. "You don't need to be hard on yourself," she said, "You're smart, and you're capable. Regardless of what's happened in the past couple years, you still have a long career ahead of you. Don't let yourself forget that—that, and your potential."

Cyn narrowed his eyes. "You're being weirdly sincere, sis."

Ria looked back to him. "Is that so strange? I doubt that I'll be able to get a week of leave next year. It might be awhile until the next time we meet up."

The fact that Ria might not be able to make the family's gathering next year, as obvious as it seemed laid out, had not previously occurred to him. "… Yeah, I guess you're right."

"So _excuse me_ if I go out of my way to offer some sisterly advice to my kid brother," she said, grinning with her mouth, but perhaps not her eyes, "You looked like you could use a little."

Cyn opened his mouth, but no reply found its way out. The loon called out again. He ran a hand through his hair. "Want to go back in?" he said quickly, "Grandpa Wallace hasn't even asked you about your opinions on the newest generation of motivators yet."

Ria didn't need to say anything more. Her expression remained unchanged. "He will be pouty if I don't tell him soon, won't he?" Ria said, gesturing to the door with her head. "C'mon."

The siblings left the balcony they had played on as children and returned to the warmth of the home. The skies blackened above them. The final night before their separation had arrived.

* * *

An alarm buzzed a succession of three shrill peeps. Cyn exhaled from his nose and rubbed at his eyes. He sat up in his seat, groggily reviewing the monitors before him. One had a half-completed game of Sabacc and a notice that he had quite a few unread personal messages, the other's complicated display essentially showed that his freighter had left hyperspace and was now traveling at impulse. He could just barely make out a beacon's light flashing out in the vastness of space—the refueling platform wasn't even in sight yet.

Cyn rolled his shoulders. They always felt as stiff as steel when he slept in the pilot's seat. He tapped the monitor showing the Sabacc game to end the program and start filling out his landing permits. The date gave him a moment of pause—three months had flown by since his last vacation. He hadn't been out of the freighter for any period of time longer than a few hours for weeks. Soon, though, he would at least be on solid ground. Maybe he'd take a couple days for a long weekend after dropping off his cargo.

His com crackled to life. "This is Platform H-77," said a half-intelligible voice, "Modular Conveyor, please transmit credentials."

"This is Modular Conveyor _LQM-53255,_ registered to and departed out of Jerijador," Cyn began in a well-entrenched monotone, "En route to Saleucami. One container containing manufacturing equipment, three containing shoe kits. Requesting permission to dock for maintenance and refueling."

The other end gave a dim, constant buzz. Cyn rolled his eyes and drummed the side of his chair with his fingertips. It took the operators so long to even offer a landing permit these days. Yet another side effect of the rebellion. "Confirmed, _LQM-53255._ You have permission to dock."

"Thanks a bunch," Cyn mumbled leaning back into his seat. There was no response to that from the other end.

The _LQM-53255_ wasn't a state of the art ship by any means, but even it could land on a platform automatically, with only the most basic of input given by the pilot. It ponderously flew by a pair of YT freighters as it approached H-77, and squeezed its way to perhaps the last free airlock on the station. Cyn opened the conveyor's hatch and gave a generous stretch before walking climbing out and onto the gangway.

The census and exercise department was dead silent, and even customs was sloppier than usual—the only two agents at the gate were talking in hushed voices as he approached, and only gave a cursory glance at his documentation before they approved him. As he walked off, they continued to whisper back and forth. Cyn glanced out the windows as he made his way to the primary turbolift. He half expected to see some wreck be the cause of the ashen-faced caution, but the surroundings seemed as peaceful as could be.

It was when the lift opened to the cantina when Cyn realized that whatever happened was bigger than the system. Much bigger. The cardtables and bar were empty, with seemingly every visitor and even a good chunk of the station's staff crowded around a holomonitor at the far end of the lobby. They were packed so tightly around that he couldn't even make out what was playing. As a lot, spacers were not overly-political: Cyn couldn't imagine what kind of news would be big enough to seize their attention over cheap liquor. As he worked his way to the monitor, he could make out scraps of conversation.

"… Definitely going to be a draft. Or another round of clonefodder—but probably a draft…"

"… They keep saying Vader's MIA, but they just don't have the stones to say he's dead…"

"… About time. Damn murderers got what was coming to them…"

Breaking through the mass, Cyn got a glimpse at the monitor. It was a news broadcast. On one side, a stonefaced anchor spoke words that could scarcely be heard over the crowd. On the other side, a scene steadily repeated—a giant, spherical battlestation exploding into a dazzling array of lights again and again and again.

Cyn watched and watched and then understood. His eyes widened and mouth dried. The world around him, the noise and the conversation of the spacers and the worried commentary of the newscasters, all muted away to be replaced with a faint ringing in his ears. His mind was entrenched; his mind was racing. Her commission. The unread messages on his holonet account. Fighting with a blaster. His family. Despair. Grief. Above all else, rage.

At that very moment, everything had changed. It could never, ever possibly go back to the way it used to be.

And, at that very moment, Cyn had learned everything he ever needed to know about the Rebel Alliance.


	2. Departure

At first glance, the fleet review seemed to reveal nothing but raw power. Dozens of capital ships kept orbit high over Yaga Minor. It was the kind of display that hadn't been mustered for years this deep into the Outer Rim: indeed, at first glance the ships looked fresh out of the construction yards. "I'm guessing that one's the _Courageous,_ " said Barnes, leaning so far forward he was essentially blocking all of the shuttle's small window. "And that one's either the _Peerless_ or the _Firestorm._ " He glanced at his datapad to review his question.

Across from him, Cyn pulled his jacket up farther over his shoulders, leaning in his seat against the wall. Ever since they were kids riding in the back of speeders, Barnes had always loved to narrate what they were passing. Now, he only indulged the habit when he was nervous. "Well, wait, no. It can't be the _Firestorm._ So it's the _Peerless,_ I suppose."

"You don't sound so certain," said Cyn, closing his eyes.

"Well, I'm not—oh!" Barnes pushed himself even closer to the window, if that was even possible. "Cyn, look! You can see the _Carracks_ now!"

"You won't be able to tell them apart at this distance."

Compared to the behemoth that was an _Imperial-_ class Star Destroyer, the _Carrack_ light cruisers all seemed to blend together. This didn't faze Barnes. "Yeah, well, one of those is the _Cockerel._ "

Cyn glanced over, but Barnes was still blocking his view. He gave a small shudder. The shuttle was cold, filled with stale, recirculated air the scent of industiral cleaner. They didn't seem to be turning towards the _Cockerel_ yet, though, which caused Barnes to eventually slump back into his seat. He had turned back and forth so many times that his uniform was already wrinkled—somehow, though, they both knew that was inevitable. "It's not a terrible first assignment," Barnes said, convincing himself more than Cyn, " _Carracks_ rotate crewmembers all the time, so there's a fighting chance I could be in charge of the whole cruiser's ordinance in a year. Maybe less."

Before Cyn could respond, an announcement called over the PA. "Now preparing to dock with the _Imperial_ Class Star Destroyer _Firestorm."_ There was a great shuffle as dozens of crewmen around them began to stand up, grabbing their belongings. The shuttle was now more than half empty.

There were the pneumatic sounds of latches attaching and thrusters disengaging behind them, which were so common at this point it might as well have been white noise. Cyn shook his head. "I heard that the _Carrack_ turnaround statistics are just rumors."

Barnes tapped his foot. No doubt he heard that, too. "Well, still, I just need to be serious at this point. You actually prove yourself here. It's not about kissing up to an instructor: it's about your prowess in combat."

"Assuming you even see real combat," said Cyn, "And just aren't watching some hyperspace lane."

That rustled his feathers. "Well, I'm more likely to see it in a freshly-launched _Carrack_ than ship rolled out a generation ago."

Cyn closed his eyes, resting back against the wall "Shut up, Barnes—"

He cut himself off. His eyes shot open. Those weren't his words. They weren't his to use. The joke was dead in as many ways possible. He glanced at Barnes, whose face had darkened. "I... I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Barnes replied, his voice unusually distant, "I mean, it's harder for you, anyway, isn't it?"

Neither spoke. The shuttle finished dropping off the crewmen and resumed its flight. Somehow, the shuttle was a little more chilly, and the air a little more bitter. Cyn glanced out the window. The ships they were approaching now were farther from the main platforms, and these did not make nearly as an impressive display. With the galaxy thrown into civil war, old destroyers mothballed by bureaucrats at the end of the Clone Wars had been rolled back out into active service. Some still bore the scorched hulls and faded republican colors of the war's final months—and all were swarmed by service boats and tugs, trying to retrofit them as well as time could allow.

"You're really going through with the fighter pilot thing?"

The question snapped Cyn back to reality. He glanced to Barnes. Any hint of a smile had long since left his friend's face. Cyn flared a nostril. "I'm qualified. Passed the simulator with flying colors."

Barnes was unconvinced. "But you blew up more than once in the training simulations, right?"

"Everyone does."

"But if it happens out there—"

"It can't. It won't."

It was actually somewhat surprising. When Cyn announced that he was applying for the TIE program, just about everyone was trying to tear away from it, from his father's red-faced screams to his mother's gasping tears. Barnes never commented on it—he was never comfortable, and never approved, true, but he had never so much as questioned the decision until now, in the fading minutes of their final hour.

The intercom crackled back to life. "Now preparing to dock with the _Victory_ Class Star Destroyer _Erinyes."_

The spat forgotten, both immediately moved towards the window. Silently floating in the void was his first command: _Erinyes._ The destroyer was about as old as Cyn was, but the years had been far less kind to her: the _Erinyes_ had seen active duty for nearly the totality of the Clone Wars, and it bore the wounds to prove it. The Imperial Navy hadn't bothered to polish the vast majority of the shrapnel-pocked and scorch-marked dark gray hull. The only visible refit was a bright sliver of shining aluminum plating that the last of the tug teams were installing—a brilliant scar running down the length of the ship. It gave the ship character. It was only installed because the ship had nearly been cleaved in two.

Cyn rose to his feet and grabbed his satchel. "Here's my stop."

Barnes stood up as well, fidgeting. He offered his hand. "Take care of yourself, Cyn. And stay in touch, you hear?"

Despite his best intentions, Cyn knew that they wouldn't. "Of course," he said, clasping Barnes hand.

They shook once, twice, and then Barnes broke suddenly and enveloped Cyn in a sudden bear hug. It was too immediate and great to even give a sigh over. "I mean that, Cyn," Barnes said, taking a step back, "Take care of yourself."

Cyn adjusted his now ruffled collar. "Trust me, I will," Cyn said. It was an automatic, thoughtless response.

The hatch of the shuttle opened, and several more servicemen—future comrades in arms—stood and made their way out. Cyn quickly took his place in line and gave a last wave to Barnes, whose furrowed brows and pursed lips vanished behind the uniformed shoulder of another crewman. Barnes had opened his mouth to say one more thing, and perhaps he did. Cyn never heard it.


	3. Comrades

In the training docs and the propaganda videos, a Star Destroyer's hanger was clean and orderly, run by sharply dressed naval officers with clinical efficiency. The reality was—like all realities are—less elegant. There was just enough discipline on the ground to recognize that this was in fact an Imperial operation, but only _just_ enough. An officer with dark bags under his eyes was yelling at a droid for stacking supply crates in the wrong location. A Stormtrooper took off his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow with a guttural sigh. A shuttle landed crookedly nearby, forcing the next two shuttles behind it to land crookedly in turn.

It wasn't what Cyn had expected of the _Erinyes,_ although perhaps it should have been. The _Erinyes_ had a storied history during the last war, but she was an old ship even in his father's time. There was no way the Empire was going to send its finest to a ship that debatably should've been torn apart for the value of its scrap.

Cyn recognized what that conclusion meant regarding him. But self-pity was a luxury he had sworn off, ever since that day.

He approached a thick-necked officer and offered up a salute. "Ensign Cynnen Dialan, reporting for—"

"Dialan?" he barked, shoving his nose into a datapad. "Dialan… Dia—Head to the secondary flight deck. Down that corridor there. Won't miss it."

The hallways were still relatively empty outside of the hanger. Most of the enlisted crew must've still been working on unloading supplies. There had been a great deal being shuttled in, and years on the freighter beat gave Cyn a better understanding than most that even a _Victory-_ class would be hard pressed to go through it quickly. It seemed to him that the logical assumption was that they shouldn't expect a resupply any time soon. Who could say what the moffs had planned?

Soon, Cyn found himself before the door to the second flight deck, which was difficult to miss. While the rest of the corridor's entrances were closed, the automatic door to the flight deck couldn't quite get there—the door attempted to close itself, got halfway there, and then abruptly stop and slowly reopen itself with a belabored whine. Cyn shook his head, waited for a few cycles in hope that it would resolve, but it was not to be. With a frown, he tried to hop through the door as best he could when it found itself at its widest. The result was more of stumble than a leap, and he entered the deck with a shamble: he realized, to his chagrin, that would be his first impression on the comrades-in-arms that he would soon be entrusting his life to. He straightened his posture immediately, and looked about the room.

The deck itself was nothing noteworthy—all cold steel and blank displays, with a heavy reek of tobacco that pushed aside any less offensive scents. Cyn must've been the last to arrive, as there were five others already present. He made six. A standard Imperial flightwing. But it took only moments for Cyn to realize this would, in fact, be no standard flightwing.

Sitting in the center of the room was no doubt the source of the smell, a man with a lit cigarra in his mouth and the ash of many others in a tray before him, reviewing a datapad. He was probably somewhere in his mid-fifties, his salt-and-pepper hair fully gray around the temples, but with a still jet black and respectable mustache. His skin had a vaguely sallow tint (no doubt from the cigarras), but his eyes were a clear, arctic blue.

To his left was a much younger man, reading a tablet of his own with visibly contained energy. He must've been about Cyn's age, or perhaps a year or two younger. Compared to even most of the other officers Cyn had seen, he was extremely well groomed, and had the sort of untarnished polish that is generally found in heirs and dandies. His bearing did not complement his looks—his eyes were darting across his screen at an almost nervous pace.

At the far left, another monolith of a man, with a bald, shining head and dark, sunken eyes. His age was harder to peg: an old and aged soul in a well preserved body. Unlike the others in the room, he noticed Cyn and flicked his gaze towards him. A moment later, however, he looked away, back towards a wall and his thoughts.

Across the room, another member of the flightwing had noticed him as well. She stuck out among the group: the only woman, and the only non-human. She had jade-green skin and black hair cut short above her ears. A series of black diamond tattoos were inked along her cheeks and nose—all markings of some alien species that Cyn had memorized once for a test back in school, but had long since forgotten in the haze of years. She looked at him attentively, her head tilted up and slightly at an angle, like a small, curious songbird. The expression did not complement the Imperial uniform.

Finally, to her right, a man who didn't seem to belong there at all. He had long, unkempt red hair and a tattoo of dragon running up his neck. His uniform's collar was undone, and he wore he belt loosely. Instead of black gloves, his hands were bare: perhaps on the account that his wrists were bunched together and bound by a plasteel shackle. His eyes were closed, and he had a smirk on his face.

Cyn took a breath in and saluted. "Ensign Cynnen Dialan, reporting for service."

The young man abruptly turned his attention from the datapad and towards Cyn. The non-human kept her curious gaze. Neither the bald man nor the tattooed man looked his way. In the center of the room, the older man with the cigarra continued to steadily review his datapad in silence. On the ceilings, fans whirled. The door behind Cyn continued to open and close. The old man took the cigarra from his mouth and ground it against the ashtray. He had yet to look up. "Something wrong, Dialan? Take a seat."

With an involuntary jolt, Cyn walked forward and took a seat. The old man set down his datapad and locked his eyes to Cyn's. Those eyes were unwavering—there was an almost unnerving presence in there that he must've built over decades of war, and it was sizing Cyn up. "While flying, your designation will be Beta Six," he began without fanfare, "The _Erinyes_ is under-crewed, so you'll also be acting as a traditional naval officer when you're grounded."

A breach of protocol. "R-Right," Cyn said.

The tattooed man snorted, "'Right'," he said, still not bothering to look Cyn's way.

The old man's eyes shone. "That's not a confident answer. If you hesitate in the pilot's seat, it'll get you—or us—killed. Understand?"

Cyn blushed, but gave a firm nod in response. "Yes, sir."

The response was better, but went unacknowledged. "To my left," said the captain, gesturing his head to the young, fair-faced man, "Is Reneaux."

He continued, looking to the bald man, "That's Stone."

"On the right is Kaarz," he said, gesturing to the non-human.

"And finally," he said, looking toward the tattooed man, "That's—"

"Duraq," the tattooed man said, cutting him off. For the first time, he opened his eyes—dirty and grey, like well-trodden snow.

The interjection didn't seem to phase the older man. "And I'm the acting CO of the flightwing, Guerrera. You'll be following my orders. Understood?"

Cyn gave another firm nod, "Yes, sir."

Guerrera pulled a new cigarra from a pocket, "Follow your orders, fly well, and you just might survive this."

"I doubt it," Duraq quipped, sinking into his seat, "Can't remember the last time I saw a kid this green. You ever pilot a fighter outside of a simulator?"

Across the room, Reneaux narrowed his eyes. "You don't need to answer that, Dialan. He doesn't have the authority to ask anything."

Cyn kept his attention on the man of the right. "No," he said to Duraq, "I haven't."

"Well, that's no surprise," replied Duraq, "The brass must be actively trying to get us killed now. This kid'll be a liability."

The ignored Reneaux began to bristle, "We've got a lot of liabilities—"

"Dialan," said Guerrera. Reneaux immediately fell silent. The commander lit his cigarra and took in a long drag. "Go fix to door."

Cyn gave an uncertain nod, "I've never—I don't know how to start."

"Then learn quickly," Guerrera said, "Take Kaarz with you to pick up the supplies. She knows where they are."

Across the room, Kaarz stood and nodded, "Of course, commander."

It was not the first assignment Cyn had either wanted or imagined. Kaarz made her way across the lounge quickly and gave Cynned a shy, uncertain half-smile. "Let's go, Ensign Dialan."

She slipped through the closing doors gracefully, a move that was clearly well practiced. Cyn followed with another half stumble and followed her. The men they had left behind were silent. The door was broken. The commander had given his orders. His career as an Imperial Officer had begun.


	4. Talinn

"I know he might seem cold or blunt at first," Ensign Kaarz said over her shoulder, stepping to the side in order to dodge a crate overflowing with power couplings, "But the captain is just trying to size you up. You'll see. Once you prove yourself to him, you'll find that he's a very able and mindful commander—and, I think, a good man."

It was for the best that she couldn't see Cynnen's face, his mouth thinning into a tight, skeptical frown. "It's nothing worse than the academy."

"Perhaps so," replied Kaarz, still walking forward "But they have different roles, you know? The flight instructors need to be hard to make you strong, but they know they'll never see you again once you're commissioned. But a flight captain is like a father to their wingmen. His orders could—no, will—be the difference between life and death. It's terrifying to serve under one you can't trust."

"Do you say that from experience?"

"Yes," Kaarz replied. The word came quickly, and there was no clarification.

She tapped a button on the wall, hailing a turbolift. She renewed her smile. "Still, I'm very much looking forward to working with you. It'll be nice to have another wingman around my same age."

The door chimed. Cyn stepped in. "What about that man in the room? Ronald?"

"Reneaux," said Kaarz, following, "And yes, he's just a year or so younger than me. But…"

"Don't like him?" asked Cyn as the door closed.

"That's not really what I'd say," Kaarz said, slowing picking her words. "He's… Good company. But best in small doses."

Those words. An echo, from a distant place and an even more distant time. Cyn crossed his arms and leaned against the wall as the turbolift made its way down. He could feel Kaarz' nervous frown—he didn't meet it. "I… Didn't intend to sound mean. He's actually a good friend—"

"Its fine," Cyn interjected. Kaarz didn't respond, and looked away herself. The turbolift hummed.

There was a pettiness to his own actions that bothered him.

"Where are you from?" His words came quickly, yet still seemed forced.

Kaarz refreshed her spirits. "Mirial."

Mirial. Of course. She was a Mirialan. Cyn was thankful he didn't need to ask for the name directly—it would be better if he seemed that he'd never forgotten her own species' name. She tilted her head slightly, almost unperceivably. "And yourself?"

"Jerijador."

"Ah," replied Kaarz, "That's… Nice."

"It's fine if you don't know where it is. Most people don't."

The lift stopped and the door opened before she could respond. The pair stepped out without continuing the point. The hallway was nondescript, as similar to the ones above as those below, and one could be forgiven thinking that the lift hadn't moved them at all. Ensign Kaarz could seeming tell the difference though, and pointed down the hall. "We'll head that way," she began, "We'll need a good hydrospanner at least. Maybe some extra wiring, if something fried."

As they began to move towards the supply rooms, Cyn caught the crisp black uniform of an officer out of the corner of his eye coming down a perpendicular hall. Kaarz must've seen it too, as she immediately clicked her heels and gave a salute so large Cyn had to move to dodge her hand. He immediately saluted in turn, but still not entirely sure who he was recognizing. Kaarz spoke, her voice a surprised squeak. "M-Ma'am!"

The new officer spoke. "At ease, ensign." It was a woman's voice, but more mature and composed than Kaarz'.

Cyn was able to get a better look at her now. She was a human, tall and imposing, and filled out her uniform with more authority than Kaarz or he did. She had an aristocratic quality that reminded Cyn of Reneaux, however, where Reneaux was clearly callow and untested, she possessed an effortless experience and confidence. It was difficult to peg her age: her features were handsome, but her auburn hair had several gray strands and the faint hint of lines hovered on the corners of her eyes and her forehead. Her rank plate designated her as a Commander. She glanced to Cyn—like Guerrera, her gaze seemed to be breaking him down, looking for any weakness. "Or ensigns, I should say. Newly transferred?"

"Yes, ma'am. Ensign Cynnen Dialan, designated Beta Six," Cyn said, his face resolved. He was weak in front of Guerrera. It would not happen with this commander.

For a long second, her eyes remained narrow and alert. Then, something resembling a smirk. "It seems the flightwing has returned to full strength. A pleasure to meet you, Dialan. I am Commander Artemesia Thul. I'll be expecting great things from you."

Cyn nodded. Commander Thul looked back to Ensign Kaarz, her eyes once again formal. "What brings you down to this deck?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her back.

"We're looking for materials to repair the flight lobby's door."

Commander Thul raised an eyebrow, but didn't pry. "As you were. Be sure to be finished by the time the Commodore arrives."

The junior officers saluted respectfully, and then turned and continued down the hall, the proud clack of her boots fading into the distance. Kaarz gave a relieved sigh as soon as she had vanished around a corridor. "Commander Thul is the first officer aboard the _Erinyes,"_ Kaarz explained as they began moving again, "It's a good sign that she seemed to like you. She's been in active service since we were children, and has good instincts when it comes to seeing talent."

Rather than accepting the compliment, Cyn frowned. "When she said that the flightwing was back to full strength, does that mean that you five all served together before I arrived?"

"Yes, we flew together on another destroyer for several months," Kaarz said, stopping in front of a door, "I hope it doesn't make you feel excluded."

The standard size of an Imperial TIE squadron was six. "Who did I replace?"

Kaarz pursed her lips, hesitating. "Another officer," she said, vanishing inside the room.

"And what happened to this officer?" Cyn asked, following her in.

Inside there were crates of supplies and walls covered with tools, which Ensign Kaarz was paying fastidious attention to. "An accident," she said, selecting a hydrospanner.

"An accident?" said Cyn.

"Yes, an accident," Kaarz said. She withheld a sigh, poorly. "Ashutosh. His name, I mean. I—We lost him during a training exercise. There was a faulty power coupling in his fighter. Port side wing shorted and he lost control. I didn't see it personally."

A vision of the earlier hall flashed through Cyn's head, of the open crate stuffed full of power couplings. None of them seemed particularly well attended to or maintained. He shook the image from his mind. "I'm sorry."

"I am, too. For him. But in this career… These things… Happen," Kaarz said, with a ghost of a nod. She sounded more as though she were trying to reassure herself than him.

"Were you two friends?"

Kaarz closed her eyes in a moment of thought. "That's not the word I'd use. Most people you serve with in the forces aren't friends like the ones you have back home. You might dislike them, or mistrust them. But you rely on them, frequently for your life. The dependable ones stand out in a way that you can't help but deeply respect. So I don't know if we were friends. And honestly, I doubt it ever mattered. There's a strong bond that forms, perhaps even stronger than you've ever felt before. I'm not sure it needs a name."

She looked him in the eyes again. "That's how I feel at any rate."

Cyn frowned. Nothing about Kaarz had struck him as pertaining to a soldier, and he had mistakenly written her off—but he had been overconfident, and entirely wrong. She understood what the job entailed better than he did, and was worthy at least of respect. "I hear you, Kaarz."

"Talinn," she said, cutting him off. She noticed Cyn's freshly raised brow. "That's my name. I mean, Kaarz is, too. Talinn Kaarz. But I always hated my last name. It's ugly. And if we're not on duty, you might as well use my first name. If you'd like to, that is. And think it's appropriate."

"Well, then I hear you, Talinn," Cyn said. He smiled, and it there was a warmth to it that hadn't found its way on his face for some time.

Talinn smiled back. "I'm glad." A moment paused in silence. Her smile grew smaller, and a little sheepish. "Now, shall we return upstairs? There's a door that needs fixing."

Cyn nodded, and opened the door from the supply room. The two stepped out, back into the cold hallways where Talinn becomes Ensign Kaarz, fighter pilots become soldiers, and new friendship bows its head to rank and command.


	5. Commission

The orders to assemble in the docking bay were not expected, but at the same time, not surprising. The _Erinyes_ still lacked a captain to command it and a mission to define it: the coming arrival of both was a certainty. Indeed, rumor had it that the first divisions of destroyers and frigates were departing fleet review already, and some speculated that the rickety, antiquated _Erinyes_ might be consigned to guard duty.

However, the speculation had to wait until after the ceremony. The crew had been arranged into several great, perfectly straight lines at the docking bay in the midafternoon, nearly an hour ago. Cyn was in one of the lines closest to the front, where a small scaffold had been erected. Atop it stood many members of the senior staff, Flight Commander Guerrera included. Standing alone at the bottom of it, waiting for her cue, stood Commander Artemisia Thul. If the staff were tired, they didn't show it; they maintained the true mark of a well forged officer, the ability to never appear weary or bored.

There was a clear contrast between them and the junior officers of the flightwing. Reneaux stood next to Cyn, cycling through a few minutes of shuffling his weight back and forth between his feet before slinking into a few minutes of stodgily trying to keep himself awake at an frankly surprisingly regular circuit. Kaarz stared off into the distance, less at attention and more lost in her own world. Only Stone had the even and steady gaze of a veteran. The tattooed man from earlier in the flightroom, Duraq, was nowhere to be found.

From somewhere to Cyn's side, the long and crisp cry of a whistle. Reneaux shot up at attention, and Kaarz blinked back to reality. Rising into the ship from the depths of space was a shuttle, folding its wings as it sailed to dock. Commander Thul walked towards the landing zone as it touched down into the _Erinyes,_ its landing gear whining as it settled. A door opened, a gangplank was extended, and their captain emerged from within. The man was a stranger to Cyn, but not to Reneaux. "Fergus Kildare," he whispered in quiet revelation.

This Kildare was an old man: he must've been commanding vessels back when Guerrera and Thul were young. His face was deeply weathered, framed by a shock of white hair and a well-trimmed beard. He walked off the ship at an uneven and limping gait, and Cyn noticed that there were two metal poles attached along his right leg, which must've had difficulty bending on its own. Kildare wore an old fashioned uniform, perhaps from the earliest days of the New Order, complete with a hat nearly two decades out of style.

The old man looked over the docking bay slowly, with a thoughtful and almost wistful frown. Commander Thul saluted, and his nostalgic frown turned to a nostalgic smile. He walked down the last few steps and nodded to her. He said something that Cyn couldn't make out, and walked towards the great scaffold that had been assembled. Kildare's pace was slow, and seemed even slower with Thul matching it at his side. But a minute later, he stood high above them, looking over the crew of the _Erinyes—_ his crew.

Thul extended her arm in a salute. "All stand at attention to Commodore Fergus Kildare." A shuffle sounded throughout the room: Cyn didn't look away to see it.

Kildare adjusted his hat, and then spoke. "If there's one thing I've never done over my career, its lie to my men. I don't intend to start now." His voice was deep and gravely, and matched his eyes, now newly hardened in resolution, "The campaign we've been assigned is by no means conventional, and it will undoubtedly be a demanding one. The Empire will be asking more from us than it does from most. I will be calling on every one of you to do your duty efficiently and effectively, often in the face of great adversity and little respite."

Cyn glanced to his left out of the corner of his eye: Reneaux couldn't help but a serious, yet energetic, nod towards the captain. Stone was unmoved. Kaarz lifted her chin slightly, and Cyn noticed that she was about to look towards him. He quickly reverted his gaze towards Kildare. "The _Erinyes_ will not be rejoining the fleet for standard naval maneuvers. Instead, it has been set aside for a very different purpose. The _Erinyes_ comprises the entirety of a newly established taskforce—the 77th Autonomous Division. We will act independently of the vast majority of the Imperial Navy. Our mandate is to patrol the Outer Rim, skirting the border of the Unknown Regions, where Imperial Law is more a pleasant fiction than an actual reality. We will ferret out smugglers, pirates, and rebels wherever they may hide. We will be indefatigable. We will be resolute.

"While we will bring law and order, we cannot expect to rely on the comforts that we take for granted. Resupplies will be scarce at best. Reinforcements may never arrive. Intelligence will consist of whatever we can glean in the field. It was not what you were trained to do, and yet do it we must. It will be done. We must cling together, or die alone."

Cyn looked towards the other senior officers. Thul seemed cool and collected, watching with professional interest. Guerrera kept his expression even, but his fingers were dancing on his hip, atop the pouch where he kept his cigarras. Kildare clasped his hands behind his back. "Expect to be called upon in these coming months like never before. However, never lose heart. I will demand exceptional results, but nothing more than I will require from myself. Our final resupply ship will dock in seven hours. The _Erinyes_ will depart five hours after final provisioning. From then on, expect to be underway for the foreseeable future. Rest well, while time yet remains."

At that, the old commodore gave a great, stiff salute. Cyn saluted in tandem with the hundreds surrounding him. Thul handed Kildare a finely polished cane, which he accepted with a tip of his hat. He walked off from the platform, towards the turbolifts heading to the bridge, with the rest of the senior officer staff closely following him. For those who remained, the columns were dismissed one at a time. Cyn's was last.

As Cyn marched in lockstep with his peers, he realized that at this time tomorrow the _Erinyes_ would be alone in the Outer Rim. There was a small, reasonable portion of his mind that wanted desperately for him to feel the perfectly rational fear that such a command entailed. But he couldn't. There was no better arena for him than the borders of civilization. The terrorists and traitors thought themselves safe hiding in the void, but they couldn't be more wrong. The Outer Rim would not be the sanctuary of the murders. It would be the theatre of the Empire's justice-and of Cynnen's revenge.


	6. Quotidian

While whether or not Commodore Kildare was forthright in saying that he never did lie to his men had yet to be proven, the officers did, indeed, rest well that night. For their final freshly provisioned meal, Cyn and his wingmates each received a fried cutlet of "pork" (it was a white meat, but likely not pork), boiled green beans with an ounce of margarine, dry crusty bread , a pink cake of a mysterious alien berry and, most importantly, a freshly brewed carafe of dark roast coffee. Cyn ate with Talinn Kaarz and Reneaux. Talinn took her coffee black, Cyn with a touch of creamer, and Reneaux with a generous pour of cream and at least two packets of synthsugar. "To serve under _the_ Commodore Kildare, and as part of an autonomous division to boot!" Reneaux said, tearing his bread apart with an audible crunch, "What an adventure!"

Talinn sipped her coffee quietly. "It seems unusual for a destroyer the size of the _Erinyes_ to be acting alone."

"Well, of course it's unusual. That's what makes it an adventure, Kaarz. This would hardly be sporting if we had too much backup. You agree with me, right Dialan?"

Cyn jabbed at his vegetables. "You seem familiar with Kildare's service record."

Reneaux gave a great laugh—a bright, honest thing that might've even been endearing if it hadn't been so loud. "Of course I am! Kildare's a legend. Or at the very least, he should be. He was one of the first commissioned captains in the Grand Army of the Republic, he had a ship under him for pretty much all of the war, and, if you ask me, his role in the Battle of Sullust is criminally underrated."

Talinn took another sip. "Reneaux went through something of a Clone Wars phase as a child," she commented from over the rim of her cup.

"It wasn't a phase!" Reneaux stated, pointedly, "It's my legacy."

Talinn gave Cyn a dry look, and Cyn did his best not to smirk. Reneaux tore off a great bite of bread with a wiff of indignation. "Besides," he said, his mouth half full, "You should've read up about Kildare before arriving either way. The _Erinyes_ was his command originally, after all."

"Really?" Cyn asked, his interest piqued.

The question stroked Reneaux's ego, and he crossed his arms with a self-satisfied smile. "True story. The _Erinyes_ is one of the very first _Victories_ rolled out. Kildare was its first and only captain. Commanded it for more than two years until the Battle of Coruscant, where it was nearly torn in two defending the capital. That's where the scar comes from."

Cyn tapped his plate with his fork. "But his command ended after the Battle of Coruscant?"

Reneaux nodded as he started into his cake. "On the _Erinyes_ at least. It's sort of a miracle that the ship wasn't scrapped in the first place. It was towed to drydock and mostly repaired, but the Separatist leaders were killed before it could see action again. It was mothballed, along with Kildare."

A strange turn of phrase. "What do you mean, along with Kildare?"

Talinn set her glass down and gave Reneaux a serious look. "You shouldn't say those things."

"Well, Kildare was a bigshot in the Republic Navy, but retired soon after the establishment of the New Order," Reneaux continued, "Awfully strange that a career military hero would just turn in his commission right at the very height of his career. Rumor has it that he disagreed with—"

"Reneaux," Talinn said again, this time with an uncharacteristic forcefulness, "Please, drop it."

Reneaux's cheeks flushed red. "… Yeah, fine," he said, poking again at his cake.

Cyn gave Talinn a skeptical look. "Why…?"

"It's just not smart to talk politics on board," said Kaarz, returning her attention to her meal, "Not now, at any rate." Reneaux's silence implied that he agreed.

There were several long, awkward seconds as the group ate in an uncomfortable silence. Cyn looked about the officer's mess. "Do you usually eat with the rest of the flightwing?" he said in a valiant attempt to rekindle a conversation.

"Not really," said Talinn, her voice once more inoffensive, "Lieutenant Stone prefers to take his meals alone. Commander Guerrera tends to dine with the senior staff."

"They're a cliquish bunch, the brass," muttered Reneaux, still sullen.

Cyn tore off a chunk of bread. "And that Duraq?"

"He's not an officer," said Talinn, evasively.

"He's a _felon_ ," Reneaux said at the same time, leaning forward with a rediscovered eagerness.

Cyn stopped short at taking a bite at the response. "… What?"

"Duraq is a… Well, his rank is Specialist," began Talinn, more delicately by degree than she should have to pass it off naturally, "Which translates to—"

"Pirate!" cut in Reneaux, "Man's a pirate. Or a raider. I don't actually know if there's a difference between the two."

Cyn had trouble believing. It seemed almost too fanciful to be real. "A pirate, enlisted in the navy? Is that… Legal?" asked Cyn.

"Obliquely," said Talinn.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess," said Reneaux, "Guerrera seems to be able to handle him, though. And he's the best pilot in the wing. By, like, a lot."

Cyn shook his head and poured himself another cup of coffee. There was something about the whole situation that rubbed him the wrong way: the Empire was supposed to fight pirates, not conscript them. That said, Talinn was not forthcoming with information, and Reneaux struck him as an altogether unreliable source of facts. He would need to learn more about this former pirate, Duraq, but on his own terms. "Are there any other mysterious backgrounds in our wing that I should know about?" he asked, bringing the coffee to his mouth.

"Reneaux's father is a prince," Talinn said matter-of-factly.

Reneaux rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, the actual title is Margrave."

The resulting snort splashed coffee up into Cyn's face, and was the reason that he managed to burn his nose on the first day of his job.

* * *

Cyn dreamt of Ria that night. It was the reenactment of an old memory, when they used to play near the stream as children back at the old homestead. The water was icy with the chill of spring's first snowmelt, and Cyn was afraid to hop across the slick rocks. Ria wasn't, and told him that he would never see the secret that laid on the other side of the brook if he wouldn't follow her. He was scared (he was a schoolboy, after all, even if Ria was somehow, suddenly, a smartly uniformed adult) but when she finally encouraged him to take a step he felt his foot slide on the rock and—

He awoke with a start, alone, in the cold heart of the _Erinyes,_ his nose and throat dry from the stale, recirculated air and his heart pounding. He ran one hand through his hair, wiping the sweat from his brow. He remembered where he was. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Cyn lay back down on the stiff cot, covering himself with the thin blanket he had been assigned. He forced his eyes closed, half-hoping and half-dreading to slip back to the sunny glades of Jerijador. And while sleep did find him, he did not dream of Ria again.

* * *

Cyn's first death came swift and sudden. He was flying his TIE over a modular conveyor, with orders from Commander Guerrera to inspect the containers. It all happened in the course of a moment. As he flew in and began scanning, the conveyor suddenly changed direction and moved upwards, clipping into the wing of his craft and throwing it off course. Suddenly, the view of space around him began spinning, his head swirling from the sight as his quickly shorting ion engine screamed in his ears. Then, a loud crack and a blinding light as the out-of-control TIE slammed into a nearby bulk freighter. The sounds of shattering glass and twisting steel. Light vanished.

It had been the very first sortie of the morning.

Cyn's second death at least came from a fight. A pack of assault shuttles were using an icefield as a staging ground, and the flightwingwas attempting to flush them out so they could be picked off by the _Erinyes_. The mission briefing said to expect moderately sized, semi-maneuverable vessels with good firepower, but mediocre engines. Cyn thought that his TIE's speed would give him the edge, as it had in similar drills in the academy, but the briefing was wrong. Three A-Wings burst out alongside the shuttles, and Cyn could barely process their shapes before a beam of brilliant light shot into the cockpit of his fighter. It exploded from the inside out, the light of the display was scattered by the ice as though they were a thousand perfect lenses.

Cyn's third death made him suspicious. A minefield lay in front of a supply cache, and he was commanded to start cleaning it up. But upon shooting the first mine, a missile shot out of it and quickly reduced Cyn to stardust before he could get a shot on it. It was strange—a mine shouldn't shoot a missile, and Guerrera must've known that it would've been the case, seeing how expertly he and the rest of the squadron completed the mission. He felt misled, and it did nothing to soothe Cyn's growing frustration.

Cyn still wasn't sure what caused his fourth death. The flightwing was maintaining formation near a resupply platform, there was a sudden crack, and then nothing. He slunk into his seat with a frustrated snort. Somehow, no one else in the wing had died, and it took nearly twenty minutes before he could rejoin the other five, all of whom made it out in once piece.

The fifth death though was simply inexcusable. Tired from hours in the cockpit and spiteful at his lukewarm performance, Cyn's maneuvers started to become increasingly aggressive and unpolished. He misjudged the distance of an asteroid he was flying over and clipped his wing, reminiscent of his first death. This time, however, his TIE went careening towards the flightwing, and within two-thirds of a second had smashed into Duraq's craft. The monitor went dark, and the hatch of his simulation pod swung open. Across the room, he could see the other units open in turn, and one more forcefully than the others. Duraq leapt from his simulator onto the ground, his face dangerous. "Shit's sake, Dialan, watch your damn surroundings!"

Cyn stood himself. Liquid anger pumped through his temples. "It's not like you did a good job getting out of the way."

The temperature of the room seemed to suddenly drop. A dark expression fell over Duraq's face, and Cyn realized that he had made a mistake. "Getting cocky on me, kid? Listen, I don't give a damn whether you live or die out there," Duraq said, pointing out towards a window, "But the moment you wind up becoming a liability to me, I swear I'll—"

A cheerful beep sound from across the room. Duraq was cut off as his wrists suddenly slammed together, their plasteel shackles colliding with an audible clash. It took a moment for Cyn to realize what had happened—the bonds that normally kept Duraq constrained had re-energized. Across the room, Guerrera pocketed a small remote as he climbed from his simulator. He retrieved a cigarra from his pouch. "That's enough, both of you. Take a smoke break. We'll reconvene in ten."

Duraq clicked his tongue, but sauntered off without further contest, his wrists still latched together by a magnetism strong enough to crush girders. Stone followed without a word. Cyn was about to do likewise until Guerrera spoke up. "Not you, Dialan."

Cyn took in a deep breath. He looked behind him: Kaarz gave him a clearly forced smile that she must've assumed was reassuring; Reneaux mouthed the word 'yikes'. Cyn turned and looked to Guerrera. The old veteran lit his cigarra and took in a deep, almost greedy drag. He exhaled, shooting a plume of smoke through the simulation deck. Then, he looked at Cyn, his cobalt blue eyes cutting through the haze. "What happened?"

"I let him pick a fight, but I take responsibility. I was frustrated. I died. More than once," Cyn said, doing his best to maintain his gaze.

"You did. That was the plan," said Guerrera, reaching into a satchel. "Catch."

The commander tossed an object to Cyn. His reflexes kicked in just in time to catch it. He looked at the object in his hands: a protein-water. "You're dehydrated," Guerrera said, once more bringing the cigarra up to his lips. "Drink up."

Cyn broke the drink's seal. The water was gritty and bitter, but he found himself thirsty enough that it didn't matter. He took in a great gulp with a breath as Guerrera took another hit from his cigarra. "Now focus. _Why_ were you shot down?"

A moment passed. Answer too fast, and he'd make a fool of himself. Answer too slow, and Guerrera would see him as incompetent. He'd have to go with his gut. "… The simulations were made to be different and… Irregular. Not like the ones I had while training."

Guerrera stared at him, processing the answer with a neutral expression. Then, something resembling a smile. It in no way complemented his hard-etched features. "Good answer. I wrote all those scenarios myself. I hope you can see why they're needed."

"You don't trust the training we get at the academy," Cyn said, tossing the quickly-emptied bottle of water into a nearby rubbish bin.

"If I trusted it, I'd be dead," said Guerrera, "The academies are full of worthless has-beens, who haven't seen combat in decades, and teach centuries-old tactics for conventional wars that simply don't happen anymore. Most young pilots out of them are programmed like droids, and are about as useful. We're correcting their mistake now, while we still can."

He tossed the cigarra to the floor and ground it with his heel. "The rest of the flightwing'll head to the docking bay for maintenance duty. You'll run through the scenarios again with simulated wingmates. You'll keep at it until you clear all five. Understood?"

It was not an easy request. It had to be done. Cyn gave a salute. "Sir!"

"Get to it, then," Guerrera said, walking towards the hallway where the rest of Beta Squadron waited for him. Before he got to the door however, he stopped and reflected for a moment. "And Dialan," he said, stopping before the exit.

Cyn was halfway back towards the simulation pod as he looked back. Guerrera's pressure was undiminished even with his back him him. "I meant what I said yesterday in the flight lounge. Follow my orders. Fly well. And you might just survive this."

With that, the door slid open, and Guerrera vanished behind it. Silence reigned in the simulation chamber. Cyn was alone, and allowed himself the luxury of a sigh, but could scarcely allow himself anything more before climbing into the pod. He recognized how poorly he had flown. He _had_ to improve, and quickly. Perhaps he might survive his career, but he had the distinct feeling that he would not survive the next simulation.

* * *

Hour passed. Cyn wasn't sure what time it was. Simulations might not be real combat, but the helmet he wore was pressurized to the same low-oxygen levels that he'd need to expect in flight, the pod shook and rolled in combat, and even the simulated deaths were a mind-stunning blend of bright light and deafening roars. He felt more exhausted than when he had working manual labor in his youthful summers past. He felt more exhausted than he had ever been during basic training.

That, and there was still maintenance duties to see to.

Step by step, he forced his weary body and wearier mind down a hallway heading towards the docking bay. Windows to his right displayed a thousand stars, those pinpricks of worlds flying past him at the speed of light as the _Erinyes_ sailed deeper and deeper into the litmus between known space and the Unknown Regions. He stopped and looked out as those endless worlds filled with countless people shot past him. He was on the wrong end of the galaxy to see Jerijador, and even if he had, who could tell any of those limitless world apart from each other? A weak mind and an impossibly large galaxy can make one feel very, very small indeed.

Then, a loud, braying laugh that Cyn was far, far too tired to handle.

"Hey, Dialan!" cried Reneaux from behind him, "Hey!"

With an effort akin to pushing a great stone, Cyn turned and looked back. Reneaux was smiling and giving him a great wave of his hand. Talinn stood at his side, looking at Cyn with her large, curious eyes. Reneaux walked towards him jauntily. "You look like hell, Dialan!"

Cyn twisted his mouth into a smile. "How kind of you to notice."

He immediately regretted the comment, as it merely earned another great bark of a laugh. "No problem! But look the bright side. Seems like you graduated from the University of Guerrera!"

Talinn ever so slightly lifted her chin. "And on your first night at that."

Cyn leaned against the window. Just taking the weight off his feet was a blessing. "Guessing I'm not the first to go through this."

"Not at all," said Talinn.

"It's like Guerrera's way of hazing ensigns," said Reneaux with a firm, authoritative nod. "It took me more tries than I'm proud to admit to get through it."

Cyn didn't doubt it. Reneaux must've trained hard in the simulations: for all his bluster, he had flown circles around Cyn today. There was still so far to go to even be average. Cyn tried not to let the thought weigh him down any more than he already was. "What time is it?" he asked.

"It's just before 21:00," said Talinn.

"Then I need to get moving," said Cyn, pushing himself from the wall, "I've still got to wrap up my share of maintenance duty."

Reneaux broke into a broad grin, giving the distinct impression of someone very eager to break a surprise and very bad at concealing his excitement. "Guess again, Dialan."

Cyn gave him a curious look. With a snap of his fingers, Reneaux pointed his thumb towards himself. "We decided to handle your maintenance for you! It's already done."

Talinn smiled herself, but after a beat gave a small, glance in Reneaux's direction. "Technically, it was actually Stone's decision."

Reneaux's shoulders dropped half an inch. "Well… I mean, yeah. It was Stone's idea."

"And Stone did most of the work."

"Well," Reneaux said, "That's because he's just really fast at—hey, I helped, okay!"

Talinn gave a quickly contained giggle. "That's true. You did help."

Cyn blinked. He hadn't even considered the flightwing going out of their way for him as a possibility. "You guys… You didn't need to do that."

"Yes, we did," said Talinn, her expression sincere.

"You've got to look out for your fellow wingmen, y'know," said Reneaux, cracking his knuckles. "And you're one of us. It's tradition."

It was a simple and frankly cliché sentiment. And yet in this moment, weary and relieved, it somehow sounded profound. They served together, so they cared for each other. For the first time all day, Cyn smiled, the expression emerging swiftly and naturally. These two were his comrades. "Have you two eaten yet?" he said gesturing down the hall with a tilt of his head, "I just realized how hungry I am."

"Yeah, we have," said Reneaux as the three started off, "But we have that covered, too. I nicked a meal bar from a supply closet. Here. I hope you like the flavor. It's… uh… 'Calorie'."

Talinn gave him a humorless look. "'Calorie' isn't a flavor."

"It is too!" Reneaux snapped, "It sounds dumb, but look, it's written right here on the wrapper! Back me up, Dialan."

Cyn snorted, but planned on agreeing whether or not the flavor was, in fact, 'calorie.' After all, Reneaux had looked out for him tonight. It was only fair that that he return the favor


	7. Ravagers

Nine days, four hours and fifteen minutes after the _Erinyes_ had left the fleet was when the first distress signal arrived.

Cyn was on the bridge at the time, overseeing a section of enlisted operators help bring the _Erinyes_ out of lightspeed and back into real space. The destroyer came to impulse at the edge of an unnamed and unexplored system: simply a massive blue star, a belt of asteroids shadowed by its radiance, and the vast emptiness of space. A solar flare lashed out from the star, an unimaginably massive arm of azure plasma reaching out into the void. Cyn, and indeed most of the bridge operators, all leaned forward to take in the sight. They were perhaps the first and only people to ever see this. For a brief, delicate moment, Cyn's greatest regret was that he didn't have a camera to capture the spectacle.

Then, an alarm—and reality.

"Commodore," said a communications tech from the other side of the bridge, "We're picking up a signal. It's faint, but on an emergency frequency."

Near the back of the room, seated in a recently installed (and notably off-spec) seat, Commodore Kildare pulled down on the brim of his cap, covering an eye. "Very good. Isolate and play it, if you would."

The tech nodded and carefully turned a dial. The bridge grew unnaturally silent in anticipation. Then, the grating sound of grinding static and a distant whistle. The tech continued to work on the broadcast. The static began buzzing in marginally more predictable patterns. Gradually, a voice emerged from the fog: a man, his speech tumbling through in a panicked roll. "Mayd—Mayday—," cracked the voice over the bridge speakers, "This is mining— post _GHF-4555—_ facing numer—hostiles. We're under heav—half a dozen Y-Win—they're not looking for any prioso—Please, if anyone can—please, please—butchery—please, we need—"

The man's voice was broken off by the sudden sound of an explosion. Then, nothing: only static, and the upwards tilted heads of the crew, listening to emptiness. The tech turned off the recording, returning the bridge to a proper silence. "It's set on a loop. Eventually, it will broadcast itself again."

Kildare sunk into his seat and steepled his fingers. "Interesting," he said, gears moving behind his eyes, "What else can you tell me? The location the signal is broadcast from? The time of original dissemination?"

"It's impossible to determine the time," said the tech, "But we're already narrowing down the point of origin."

"Keep at it," said Kildare, "In the interim: tell Commander Bronson that Alpha Squadron should be prepped and ready to fly within seven minutes."

A wave of tension rolled across the bridge, despite the best efforts for the junior staff to project an air of calm. Cyn felt it, too. The promise of combat. Behind him, Artemisia Thul leaned towards Kildare, speaking softly. "Time to mobilize, sir?"

"Patience, Commander," replied Kildare with a small wave of his hand, "One cannot act without information."

The door behind them abruptly opened, and Commander Guerrera stormed in, lit cigarra in hand. "What's this all about?" he asked.

Kildare did not look behind himself to recognize the commander. "Kindly refrain from smoking on my bridge, Mr. Guerrera." Had Cyn not been so focused on the moment, perhaps he would've caught the distant hint of displeasure in Kildare's tone. It was an unusual state for the old man's normally even disposition, like the venire of frost on an unexpectedly cold spring morning.

However, Cyn was not so perspective, and only saw Guerrera, barely restraining a curse, extinguish his cigarra on his rank insignia and pocket the stub. "What's the situation?" he repeated with some vexation.

"That's still to be determined," said Commander Thul.

"At least give me the clearance to start prepping Beta Squadron," said Guerrera. Cyn took a breath in immediate, instinctual anxiety at the words.

Kildare adjusted the brim of his hat. "That isn't yet necessary at this point."

Guerrera's face reddened—perhaps in anger, perhaps in embarrassment, or perhaps both—but before he could press on, the communications officer spoke up. "The signal's origin is triangulated."

"Capital," said Kildare, wholly turning his attention away from the commander, "Display."

A holoprojector from the ceiling beamed down a scratchy blue map of the sector. A nearby system was boxed-off as small, nearly unreadable characters followed to provide what little context there was. "The source of the signal is an asteroid mine, designated _GHF-4555_ by the Mining Guild. Independent, mostly specializing in palladium extracts," began the comm officer, "The records don't state whether or not it had any defenses."

Kildare did not sit up, but did narrow his eyes in thought. Commander Thul clasped her hands behind her back. "Specifically, what frequency is the signal being broadcast from?" she asked.

"The origin of the actual signal is a space buoy just a couple kilometers from the mine. It still appears intact."

"Curiouser and curiouser," said Kildare, "We're either dealing with unusually incompetent raiders or unusually savvy ones. Very well. We shall do our duty. Off display, and begin charting course. And, if must I add, beat to quarters," he said, the final sentence almost in passing.

Artemisia Thul hollered in response, her voice echoing in the cavernous bridge. "Beat to quarters!"

A low, wooping alarm sounded, and the bridge crew redoubled their work. Cyn recognized what this meant. Throughout the _Erinyes,_ gunners were sprinting to their turbolasers, fire control began monitoring the hull's structural integrity, and engineers began overseeing the engine for combat level output. Their lives could be put on the line at any moment. All Cyn could do was to continue to serve in the position he was assigned as a naval officer, and oversee calculating the surprisingly fast trip that would be needed to jump to the mine. He would not be in his fighter: the idea simultaneously irritated and relieved him.

It was a quick and trivial measure for all pre-hyperjump calculations to result, and the _Erinyes_ wasted no time to ignite her massive engines. There was a long second of anticipation, then the stars before them began to stretch away as the ship leapt into the swirling-blue space-between-space, rocketing towards its goal. It was nothing Cyn hadn't done over and over again, but this time was different. A bead of sweat trickled down from his temple and across his ear. He hazard a glance back. Kildare leaned into his seat with an effortless resolve, and Commander Thul hardly seemed impacted by this at all. Guerrera glowered. Cyn turned back before any of them could see him.

It took just minutes for the _Erinyes_ to travel the thousands and thousands of kilometers between the star and the mining station. The crew braced as the glow of hyperspace dimmed and the vessel once more returned to impulse. All eyes were looking ahead, to see what awaited them. It was nothing surprising, and nothing good.

Their immediate sight was obscured by thousands of shards of metal and scrap, scorched and charred, and clearly all too recently. They must've been the remains of refining platforms and storage containers blown apart with a savage brutality. The fragments bounced off the _Erinyes'_ hull harmlessly as the destroyer moved onwards to the heart of the mining operation. What remained of heavy freighter drifted past, the bottom of its hull blown apart and its cargo streaming out like half-eaten deer carcass abandoned by wolves. Cyn figured if there were life signs on board, one of the bridge operators would've scanned it and told them. No one spoke up.

The colossal asteroid that the mining station had been built into remained intact, but that was as good as the news got. The once sturdy hangers where once heavy lifters had brought minerals and supplies in and out had been annihilated under heavy blaster fire, and now were little more than festering, charred wounds on the face of the asteroid. Half-destroyed ships floated lifeless, caught in mid-escape just outside the mine. Cyn's eyes followed the side of the asteroid to where the habitation modules would be: these, too, had been gutted, perhaps with the miners still asleep in their beds. It wasn't just plundering. It was a slaughter, and Cyn felt a familiar rage begin to burn in the back of his head.

The bridge remained silent. Everyone sat still at their posts, tense and at the ready. Kildare drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "Any sign of hostiles?"

"None, sir," called a voice from operations.

"Any friendlies? Is there anything out here that's still alive or intact?"

"Negative, sir," the ops officer responded, "Only the buoy."

"Strange, that," said Kildare, "Whoever went on this hit job were thorough to the point of pantomime villainy. And yet they leave the buoy to cheerfully broadcast the deed."

"Maybe they're going to spring a trap," said Guerrera, crossing his arms.

"Unlikely," responded Commander Thul, "If they were to hyperjump towards our location the buoy would pick up on their arrival before our scanners would. They'd lose the element of surprise."

"Not if they were hunting for smaller prey," replied Guerrera, "Or sabotaged the thing."

"Quite possible," said Kildare, leaning his elbow into the armrest, "More thoughts?"

This was just enough of an excuse for Cyn to speak. The words came unbidden, as though he couldn't hold them back even if he had wanted to. "It was the rebels," he said, his voice steady, yet dripping with malice, "They did this."

Kildare slowly arched a brow, mildly intrigued. Guerrera looked surprised at the initiative. Thul, however, was as unflappable as ever. "That's very unlikely," she said, genially, "Nothing about this attack lines up with the Rebellion's tactical doctrines."

Cyn clenched his fist. His mind wasn't cool enough to process what she had said, but Kildare's was. "I'd agree. The rebels wouldn't've hit the living quarters like this without good reason. What we're looking at are probably a particularly ruthless breed of pirate—although they certainly look well equipped for brigands."

Commander Thul nodded. "Given how few supplies there are this deep into the Rim, and the amount necessary to field this sort of strike team, I cannot imagine that they are stationed too far away."

"Damned raiders. They'll find more trouble than they bargained for from us. Mr. Nevader, start compiling a list of any recorded hyperjumps in the sector that we can pull from region beacons and buoys, and Mr. Ydale, begin a deep analysis of any com chatter that we can pick up, especially on black frequencies," Kildare pushed himself up from his seat. He stood upright, a feat that Cyn knew was difficult for the old soldier, given his complicated leg brace. If he was pained, though, he didn't show it. His face was half-hidden behind the wide rim of his hat, but even that much showed a resolve that scarce few could rival. "They won't be able to avoid us for long. The _Erinyes_ is on the hunt."


	8. Reneaux

The _Erinyes_ diligently prowled the empty, forgotten reaches of the galaxy, her sensors scanning over megalithic asteroids and the millennia old wreckages of ancient warships for any trace of her prey. She sent out several rounds of probe droids looking for them, finding at worst only small-time smugglers and unlicensed mining ships. Criminals all, but irrelevant ones. The real foe was still out there, somewhere. It was hard to say what this elusiveness meant. Perhaps for every hour that ticked by, the raiders were in flight, getting farther away from them. Perhaps they were simply maneuvering into a position to strike to inflict the greatest possible damage. It was impossible to say.

As a result, those long days on board had somehow grown longer.

Guerrera kept Beta Squadron in the simulators for hours at a time. He no longer flew himself, and instead spent his time endlessly pouring over every point of minutiae that the system provided. His criticism was constant, both flowing easily and precisely targeted. Cyn's accuracy in the last run was 23.4%-it had been 24.7% the run before. His turning radius had loosened a fraction of an angle. What happened? The answer was, of course, that Cyn was exhausted and weary, but he knew that such an answer would never cut it. Instead, he took solace drinking from a foil pouch, filled with some sort of coffee byproduct. It tasted foul, but the caffeine soothed his headache. Moments later the reprieve was lost to another simulation.

When the squadron wasn't training in the simulators there was still plenty of work to be done. More often than not the work was maintenance. TIE Fighters, despite their fragility, were complicated machines that needed almost daily tune ups to fly at their highest potential—and at their highest potential, one could maximize the pilot's chance of survival. The engineering staff did a decent job, but their incentives weren't as high as the pilots. Or so Reneaux told Cyn. He was standing on a stepladder, his upper torso deep into a removed panel on his TIE's underbelly, loudly clanging away at some ion relays. Cyn sat below him, rewiring a blow motivator. "It's just shocking, you know?" Reneaux said, his voice a metallic echo ringing inside the fighter, "It must've been terrible to see that attack in person. I just read about it in the official docs, but to actually see it must've been… Intense."

Cyn accidentally tapped a wire with his index finger, earning a shock. He jerked his hand back and shook it a couple of times. "More or less."

"I mean, it was just so unnecessary. I don't get the mindset at all. Robbing and stealing—well, yeah, sure, that's easy enough to wrap your mind around. But why go out of your way—hey, can you pass me a turbospanner?—why go out of your way to go about killing people like that? Why murder the workers after you take their stuff if you're going to leave a beacon behind anyway? What does it get you? I just don't understand that mindset at all."

"It's likely for the best that you don't," said Cyn, passing the tool up to Reneaux, "More people know it than the galaxy needs. Sometimes, I think there's something rotten in the hearts of men."

Reneaux slid out from the fighter. His face was coated with engine grease, his face humorless. "Y'know, Dialan, I think you said that to sound all cool and deep, but it really just makes you sound gloomy."

Cyn rolled his eyes. "I don't pick out my words to sound cool."

"Sure you don't. C'mon, most everyone does, and you strike me as the type to do it more than most."

A beat. "What's that supposed to mean?" Cyn asked.

Reneaux's expression changed to one of a man who knows that he said something he hadn't intended and was quickly looking for a way out. Thankfully, this time, the universe conspired with him. "Cynnen! Reneaux!" called an approaching voice.

"Hey, Kaarz!" Reneaux said.

Talinn Kaarz approached with Stone, carrying palate stacked with trays of vacuum-sealed rations. She looked tired: moss green bags saddled the normally jade skin below her eyes. Regardless, she offered them a smile. "How's the work coming along?"

Cyn gave her a nod of recognition. "Well enough."

"Dinner at last!" said Reneaux, wiping off his face as he hopped to the floor. "What've we got?"

Kaarz looked at the labeling. "Looks like… bear."

 _Bear._ "Again?" said Cyn, unable to hide his disappointment.

Reneaux, similarly, was frustrated. "Why do we have so much bear!? Nobody likes bear!"

"Must be that some world farms them cheaply. Or someone high up in central supply is in close to a… Bear meat contractor, I suppose," said Kaarz, handing the trays to her wingmates, "But it's not so bad. At least we have meals."

Cyn peeled the seal off his rations. A slab of recently reheated meat wallowed in a sea of oil-like gravy. The vegetables were alien and unidentifiable. "I'd rather starve than eat bear," Reneaux muttered, yet opened his meal all the same.

Stone crossed his arms, and Kaarz's mouth thinned. "You'd do better with a more positive attitude. I even was going to offer you two the extra tray."

"Why'd you get an extra?" asked Cyn, working up the courage to face the meal.

"It was supposed to be for Duraq," said Kaarz, looking across the hanger bay, "But he wouldn't accept it."

It made sense, somehow. Cyn rarely saw Duraq eat—he really had no idea when the former raider did so. It wasn't as though he lacked an appetite, either. While Duraq was lazy, arrogant, and flippant in essentially all social situations, he put in an incredible amount of effort when it came to the simulations and maintenance of his craft. Even now, he was working on his own fighter on the other end of the deck. He had arrived before Cyn and Reneaux had, and would likely stay well past the time he left. It simultaneously made Cyn respect the man's work ethic, but worry about the fact that such energy always seemed to stem from the promise of battle.

Stone started off towards his TIE, and Kaarz began following towards hers. "We've got to get to work. I'll see you later," she said with a wave.

Cyn looked away from Duraq and waved to Kaarz as well. Reneaux was still glowering at the bear meat. "Whoever heard of eating bear? No one eats bear."

"So," Cyn said, changing the subject as he started with the vegetables, "Are you ever going to clarify what Talinn said, back at the commission dinner?"

"What about?" replied Reneaux, still poking at his food.

It should've gone without saying. "That your father was a prince."

"Oh. Right. That," said Reneaux, rubbing the back of his neck, "Prince isn't the right word. Dad's a margrave. We're all from Onderon. There's still a bunch of nobility there, so it's not like it's unusual to bump into some kind of titled person or another."

"So, margraves are common, then?"

"Well, no, not exactly," said Reneaux, "There are three other families with the title, outside of the Reneaux. I guess it's sort of a prestigious position. We have a nice manor and, like, half of one moon and a third of another. I can show you sometime, once we're though with this and get some time off."

Cyn's brows shot up. "You own half a moon?"

"I don't own it," Reneaux said, correcting, "Dad does. I'm a seventh son. I'm not going to inherit any of the moons or manors. Best I can get out of it are a bunch of connections and comfy vacations. Could've gotten into some of the ventures or businesses too, if I'd wanted to, but I'd go crazy with a desk job like that, y'know? Say, Dialan, how's the bear?"

"What kind of businesses are you talking about?" Cyn asked, ignoring the food.

Reneaux gave an embarrassed frown. "Anyone ever tell you that you can be nosy, Dialan?"

The comment caught Cyn off guard. He had, in fact, been told that. A lot. Barnes and Ria would make fun of him about it, back in brighter days. Reneaux gave a great sigh. "Okay, fine. So, my dad was a seventh son too, and stuck out on his own to make his fortune. Most of the nobility look down on working in finance and industry, but again: seventh son. What are you gonna do? Then there was a whole lot of political intrigue, and suddenly the Reneaux Margraveship skips six heads and goes to him. No one expected it. But now there's all kinds of capital loggerheaded up for my brothers to divvy up."

Cyn wanted to ask another question. Reneaux was going to think him nosy. He did so anyway. "Why did the title pass to your father?"

"Clone Wars. Bad time for Onderon. Sorry, Dialan, don't want to talk about it," he said, breaking eye contact and poking at his meal, "And that's the condensed story. Yes, my dad's nobility, and no, it doesn't mean that I've got any of it to spare."

Reneaux was blushing. Cyn shook his head. He clearly was poking a sore nerve. "Sorry. I was just curious. We don't have titles or nobility like that on Jerijador."

"Nah, it's okay," Reneaux said with a large, exaggerated nod, "I get why you'd ask. You're one of the good guys anyway, Dialan, so there's no real harm in telling you about it. But enough about me. What about you?"

"Me?" asked Cyn.

"Yeah. You're getting my life story. I figure there's something to yours as well. Reciptrocity."

"That's not how you pronounce reciprocity," said Cyn, cutting the bear meat.

"Well, is how you dodge a question," Reneaux said, his tone faux-snooty.

Cyn tapped his tray twice with his fork, then began. "I'm from a small, rim world that no one's heard of," said Cyn, with the cadence of a memorized speech, "My father is upper-middle management in a shoe-kit manufactory, and my mother's a housewife. I shipped cargo on freighters for a few years. Then I enlisted. There's really nothing to say."

"Really?" asked Reneaux, "Because, you don't give off the vibe of someone with nothing to say."

"Don't I?" said Cyn, now uncomfortable enough to seriously consider eating the bear meat.

"Not at all. There's something dark and edgy and brooding about you, y'know? You just broadcast it. Like you're some character from a holo. I figured there's some sort of tragic backstory there. Something like a dead lover or—"

"That is too much." Cyn's words were firm and strong, with none of the halfhearted evasiveness that the earlier conversation had.

A moment passed without speech, the only sounds being the clangs and buzzes of the hanger bay around them. Reneaux looked directly at his feet. "I was just trying to joke."

Cyn gave a deep exhale through his nostrils. "No, that's on me. Sorry." Perhaps Reneaux was right about the nosiness after all.

Another moment passed quietly. Reneaux cut off a square of meat and looked at it resolutely, but before he did anything he shot a furtive glance Cyn's way. "Well, listen, I will say this. My family is sort of nobility, but while being a margrave might mean a lot on Onderon, it isn't such a huge deal in the greater galaxy. But there's someone on the _Erinyes_ with a bloodline way older and more important than mine."

The promise of gossip did wonders to level out Reneaux's mood, and more information on the crew always put Cyn on the alert. "We've got another noble on board?"

Reneaux nodded, "Sure do. I thought you might've already placed it together. There aren't a lot of dynasties older or more celebrated than Thul."

"Artemsia Thul," Cyn said, lowering his voice, "She's an Onderanian noble, too?"

"Onderon? The Thuls? Not so much," said Reneaux, bringing his voice to little more than a whisper, "They're not from Onderon. They were from Alderaan."


End file.
